


Course Correction

by tainry



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies)
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, M/M, Mpreg-ish, Multi, PNP, Sparks, Spawning, m/m - Freeform, poly cuddles, robotic gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5760760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tainry/pseuds/tainry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AoE Fix-it fic for Mmouse15. <3 And everyone else. ^_^; Sparks are life-force and memory. If the spark’s still glowing, the ship’s still rowing! Optimus flies off in pursuit of what is now Galvatron’s ship. He finds more than he’d hoped for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flight

Rage seethed through him, bleeding from his fields, a tell-tale wake, part of the trail he was leaving if anyone capable cared to follow. He detected no missile launches from the planet below. 

Set beside his own spark, in physical and emotional contact, Ironhide’s spark glowed incandescent with fury. Betrayal, Ratchet’s loss – his bonded; Prime had officiated at that ceremony. The ambush at Mexico City. Megatron resurrected once again. 

There hadn’t been time, after Chicago, to make a new body for Ironhide. Things had fallen apart so quickly. Optimus understood Attinger’s rise and power-grab more clearly now. A vacuum that would be filled just as quickly, and with another unknown. He hoped Cade Yeager kept his family safe. He hoped Joshua Joyce – Ironhide’s spark pulsed with anger, resentment, desire for vengeance – retained enough influence and affluence to keep them safe. Nothing guaranteed. Could the Autobots he had left on Earth get the Knights’ ship repaired before they were overrun? It was difficult terrain, and all they needed were atmospheric maneuvering thrusters; get them out over the Pacific. International waters, where they might have time to get the rest of the ship’s systems back online. Maybe. Maybe not. 

Of the humans who had been their allies before Chicago, silence had been bought…or exacted. After two assassination attempts, Bumblebee and Sideswipe had moved the Epps and Lennox families out of the country, trading off patrols, so that it had been Bee, wide-ranging, who had heeded Prime’s distress call and returned, while Sideswipe kept their most determined – but at the moment authority-less – allies safe. Mearing had struggled to contain the new CIA director’s radical policies, but had lost her post with the administration change. She too had lost contact, gone underground, one hoped. Simmons and Dutch had gone back to their mansion, and Simmons had taken to writing science fiction. Rather pointed science fiction, but fiction nonetheless, and made very public book tours and talk-show appearances. Dutch was a very skilled driver and had avoided a number of vehicular accidents that were not caused by Decepticons. 

Prime knew himself to be a clear target. Keep moving, Ironhide’s spark pushed at him, lashing with frustration and hot determination. 

Ratchet had reinforced the power systems in the haphazard, makeshift tangle they’d made in Prime’s chest, to keep the unhoused spark alive, the only thing they’d been able to salvage from the grisly remains Sentinel’s gun had left. Five years, bearing emotions not always his own. Optimus thought he’d done well enough, sustained by hope for a future with resources to make Ironhide his own mech again. Now Ratchet was dead, and with him that hope along with so many others. 

Faster. Starlight cold on his armor. He needed to catch the ship before the dark matter drives fully engaged. The surprises left behind by Crosshairs during their earlier sortie gave him only so much time. Jetfire’s engines propelled him, fully integrated with his body, never separate from him again. Even immersed in Ironhide’s and his own wrath he did not forget. And he wondered what had happened to Jetfire’s spark-shell, which Ratchet had saved – an empty vessel, cold and dark, but a reminder, a relic of the ancient Seeker. He had not sensed it amid the gruesome array of parts in the vivisectionists’ lab at KSI. 

The Moon – a body as fraught with history as its parent – hove into distant gravimetric sense on his left, though surface-dark at this angle. He’d seen it before. Lockdown’s ship, now Galvatron’s, ahead. Still in orbit. Were they preparing to leave or would Galvatron stay and rain destruction down upon the planet? Optimus did not think he had gained a full sense of the ship’s capabilities during the brief glimpse he’d gotten, semi-conscious. 

Heavy plating around the engines, thinner a little farther forward. Hull breach – inherently messy, but a faster way in than hacking airlocks that might be rigged with nasty surprises for boarders. He’d been dragged aboard, first time. Now he had both feet beneath him. Sword and shield. The holes in his chest felt raw-edged but internal self-repair was well underway. 

Every stride silent, heading forward to the command center, where Galvatron would be, though there were a few KSI drones yet, plus Lockdown’s crew. He would have to be careful, but at the very least he wanted the nav coordinates. The location, if only of rendezvous, of these Creators. He rounded a corner, scanning ahead passive-only. 

Gladness~recognition~anticipation~relief blazed from Ironhide’s spark. Proximity. Optimus had sensed that before, catching echoes of the bond. Not often directional, but now that they were close, yes, _that way_ , Ironhide’s spark pulled. _That way!_ Optimus took a step, thinking, watching the cross-corridors. Ratchet! Ratchet’s spark! It made sense; Lockdown had been known to collect sparks. It was unclear why; trophies perhaps. 

Narrower corridor, down a level. Down again. Not command. Not recharge alcoves. The passage opened up into a large, dim hall.

Lockdown had had more than one prison. More than one trophy hall. The one aboard the Knights’ ship had only held what he had felt were his greatest, rarest prizes. And the Knights’ ship had been cruiser-class. Not very large, as interstellar craft went. 

When capacity in one place had been reached, Lockdown had needed overflow storage. Eyes. Arms. Hands in finger-fringed stacks. Heads. _Heads_. He knew some of them… Steam blew from his stacks, but he remained silent. Coils of internal cabling. Labeled bins of parts; lights, pumps, filters, tanks. Dead hatchlings floated in murky jars – the last of the Fallen’s brood, he suspected. Another failure, that he and his Autobots had not found them in time. Legs and torn torsos dangled from the ceiling. Old energon stained the floor. A handful of hollowed bodies hung against one wall; bodies of the dead with the spark removed, or replacement bodies that had never held a spark. Ironhide roared within, wanting to destroy it all.

At the far end, so that Optimus must walk through every span of it, his memory store every hideous detail, was a rack of glowing orbs. Arranged in mimicry of crystalline structure, each spark linked to the others around it, fed enough power to function, but the whole carefully isolated from the ship’s systems. 

A library? Part of a weapon? A …display? 

Ironhide’s spark hissed and roiled, the bond ringing out, echoing from one particular orb. Optimus reached up, but was afraid to pull it free, and in so doing cause greater harm. His hands shook in the clamor of Ironhide’s emotions. 

_Be calm, old friend,_ he pleaded. Ironhide’s prompting and instincts had helped keep him alive these five years; moved him to run or fight, when he might have attempted parlay, or surrendered to draw fire from others. He clenched his hands into fists, struggling for enough calm in himself to soothe his friend. All the while aware of time, and the skittering repair drones, which surely had reported his location by now.

 _Easy,_ he thought, willing a measure of peace through his spark. _Gently._ Some of the things attached to Ratchet’s spark were power conduits, some data cables, but three threadlike wires connected his orb to others, the function of which Optimus could not discern. Trap, more than likely. He scanned the surrounding structure carefully. The heavy power conduits he dared not sever, for fear of killing all 57 sparks in the frame. He didn’t know if he could carry all of them— 

—and his trajectory went from attack to rescue. The thread-wires connected to all the sparks, but not to the frame. Small metal nodes were set here and there among the wire-net. Optimus noted the three that connected most directly to Ratchet’s spark. If only he had three hands. He would have to be fast. 

Two nodes he crushed at once, squishing the third as his other hand flew to disconnect the other cables. There were no mouths, no vocal apparatus to scream with, but the subtle spark-fields fluxed horribly. He feared what he had done, but Ratchet was free, and he swiftly opened his chest, snapped another power cable out of his own spark chamber and nestled Ratchet’s spark next to Ironhide’s. Shock, surprise, joy, grief, anger, and the bond between them flaring strong, the two sparks of his friends were a warmth in his chest, more than making up for the weakness and lassitude running through his right side. He would gladly compensate. 

Time, time. Urgency, forward impulse from Ironhide. Urgency and anxiety from Ratchet, but of a different tenor, Optimus thought as he made his way silently toward the exit, not as adept at reading his new guest. He slowed, pausing by the row of hollowed bodies. They had no time…he could hear the repair drones skittering in adjacent chambers. This chance might not come again. 

No, it would take too long, he was unsure of the procedure, it was too great a risk. If something went wrong he wouldn’t know how to mend it, and they could lose Ironhide and Ratchet forever. And carrying two, or even one hollowed body would encumber him too much.

It was not like him to dither.

A fast scan, and he pulled two bodies down from their hooks. Basic shapes, much like the elite of Lockdown’s crew; “humanoid” one might say, moreso even than many Autobots. He opened his chest, freeing Ratchet’s spark first. If they could get spark connected to voice or any sort of communication apparatus, then Ratchet could advise him during completion of the transfer, and then perform or at least assist in Ironhide’s. 

A scurrying trample of movement among the maintenance drones. Voices echoing in adjacent corridors.

Gaping chasm in the chest, dark and cold. He had seen this done, long ago, and he’d had what the humans would call nightmares for centuries after. Black holes swallowing sparks, everything lost… No, this time there was a chance at life, snatched back from the void; like the Knights defeating the World-Killer in ancient times. He triggered the chamber open, found the leads, the critical contact points. Gently he set Ratchet’s spark within, keeping the power conduit to his own body connected until the last moment. 

Please, Optimus thought. Please let this work. 

The Matrix floated free of its housing at his behest, hovered above his hand, above the open chest. A careful gesture, not the wild, desperate stab Sam had used, and the Matrix flared blue-white, coruscating energies from the hidden folds of the universe, coursing through the hollowed frame and its new occupant. 

Connections closed, optics flickered, vocal processor booted, cycled through tonal spectra until settling on a familiar cadence. 

“Unmaker above, Optimus! What are you d— oh for…unplug that before you collapse!” Ratchet batted at his hand, pushing the Matrix away and yanking Prime’s power conduit free. The new body shuddered, systems coming online, fluids circulating, warming. “Primus, these hands are awful.” Optimus had chosen spare, unused bodies, rather than recycled dead. New, and very basic.

Better than nothing. Ratchet shook himself, took a tentative step. Far better. He turned, saw Optimus setting Ironhide’s spark into the other hollowed body, Matrix in his other hand, poised. Optimus side-eyed him, fields uncertain.

“Go on, you’re doing fine,” Ratchet murmured, close, observing, pleased and proud and anxious – he could hear footsteps. They were in a bad place. They’d been in plenty of bad places before. 

Blue lightning, the hollowed body – Ironhide – heaved and shuddered, growling, roaring, fists clenching but there were no cannons to spin. Optimus stepped back, shaky, exultant under the worry. Now they all three had legs. Footsteps, two-legs and four-legs, pounded nearer. Ironhide and Ratchet stared, then glared at each other.

“You’ve looked better,” Ironhide said. Ratchet smacked him.

“So have you!” 

“Come on!” Ironhide hissed, making for the exit, knowing via Optimus the route back to the hull breach. Optimus followed them, staggering a little, his shield held close to his body. Ratchet shot a glance back at the spark-array frame.

Empty. 

Oh, Primus. 

“Rrrun!” Optimus growled, right behind them. They ran. 

Then ducked and scrambled for cover as projectiles and plasma bursts exploded around them. Optimus cycled both guns, running up to the next level through burning haze and electrical smoke, clearing a path. More of Lockdown’s crew and two of the four-legged Steeljaws sprang at them as they cleared the next deck. The fire of battle was in him again, not Ironhide’s fury but his own. 

“Keep moving!” he shouted, firing and firing, heedless now of hull breach or console damage. “Ironhide, you do not have a weapon!” The crewmech behind Ironhide fell with a split and melting head. Ironhide spun and stooped in one smooth motion. 

“ _Now_ I have a weapon,” Ironhide snarled, and fired over Prime’s shoulder, nailing another of Lockdown’s crew. 

“Stubborn, reckless…” Ratchet huffed, grabbing Ironhide around the waist, pulling him down the corridor. 

“Faster!” Optimus shouted over the roar and boom of explosions. The closer they got to their intended exit, the closer they were to sensitive areas, like the power core. That would be shielded, but there would be auxiliary control niches, where he might introduce programmatic instabilities… 

Ironhide caught a lobbed grenade and pitched it up into the ceiling of the corridor behind them, collapsing the deck above and briefly cutting off pursuit from that direction. They ran. 

The engine compartments were indeed locked and heavily shielded. Hacking through would take too much time. Optimus paused at a junction panel. 

“Be careful!” Ratchet said. This was an alien ship, in a real sense. The technology was undeniably similar, but there were hazards—

“Aagh!” Optimus jerked his hands away from the key surface amid a shower of sparks. That hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped. He hadn’t been able to access the navigational computer at all, but the engines themselves contained a kind of record of distances traveled and fuel consumed, and direction could be inferred from radiation and gravimetric traces. It would have to do. 

“Come on!” Ironhide beckoned, having scouted ahead. They hadn’t met any of the KSI prototypes yet, which was odd, if Galvatron had indeed taken the ship. Maybe he was busy suborning Lockdown’s crew, and said crew was putting up resistance. That wouldn’t last, and then everyone would be hunting them. As usual. 

Sprint then climb, repair drones scattering, Optimus handing his friends up through the hole he’d made in the hull – internal selective shields having automatically snapped over the breach to prevent atmosphere from escaping. They scrambled about on the outside hull, orienting themselves. 

//These bodies cannot transform to cometary mode!// Ratchet commed. Not a happy discovery. Ratchet had learned a lot of things from the other sparks in the rack. A lot of odd things about Cybertronian biology now made sense, as controls on their population, as controls of individuals by their Creators. 

//Hang on to me,// Optimus told them. Ratchet flattened and wrapped around his torso and chest – he knew what Prime had done – and Ironhide clambered onto his back, hindering the sword, but he was unlikely to need it at the moment. Prime dove away into space, a small, erratically-moving target. 

Plans had been discussed, agreed upon among the Autobots, in the scant moments they’d had to converse with the humans before Prime had launched himself after the mercenary ship. They were not returning to the planet’s surface. He could feel Ironhide and Ratchet noting their trajectory, and considering for themselves what it meant. Ratchet palpably relaxed. Then braced for landing as their rendezvous site became obvious. Optimus allowed himself a small smile.

They’d done it, Bumblebee and the others. Repaired the Knights’ ship enough to get it up here, the infamous dark side of the Moon, near the _Ark_. Repairs were ongoing, sparks flying from welding on the hull, Crosshairs and Bee – and Sideswipe; per the plan they had swung around to pick him up before breaking orbit – crawling around, patching holes, mending the boarding ramp hydraulics, Hound upside-down with just his legs sticking out of an open engine access panel. Drift came out of the _Ark_ , carrying a huge bale of salvaged materials and an equipment chest. One-sixth Earth gravity made their tasks easier. And vacuum, making Bee’s chancy vocal ability less an issue. 

He had spoken to Drift at length over private comms about the chain of command, while the humans rested, during their sprint from Texas to Chicago. Drift had landed in Japan a year ago, and thought himself to have assimilated the culture. Perhaps he had, but Bee had been on the planet eleven years and had a much better cross-cultural feel for more than one group of humans. He spared a hope that Sam and Carly had remained hidden and quiet in Canada after this latest conflict with Attinger’s unit and KSI’s monstrous artifacts. Mikaela he knew would do nothing foolish, secure enough since her disassociation from both Sam and the Autobots, relatively, publicly safe in her job assembling rockets at NASA. 

Work stopped as they landed. Bee bounded to them, hesitant only in being unable to decide who to hug first. Ratchet got tackled, being closer, the young scout burrowing his helm against Ratchet’s chest. Sideswipe flipped down and made a rolling rush at Ironhide, stopping at the last second to flick an embarrassed scan at him, and come to something at least vaguely resembling attention. 

//We saw what they did—!// Bee wailed.

//Hush, I know,// Ratchet said. Ironhide had briefed him on events since his…near-death. //I’m sorry. My fault for staying in one place too long…//

//No!// Ironhide joined them, Sideswipe in tow, wrapping his arms around them all, bodies strange but sparks wonderfully, deliriously familiar. //No, Ratchet… Ratchet…// Ah it felt so good to be able to speak that name, to hold him, to do anything but fume helplessly! Ratchet! He had his bonded again, aching, but he had his Ratchet back. He knew there was a lot to do yet, but he could take this moment to wholly appreciate and be grateful for life and loved ones.

Bee turned between them, wrapping arms and legs around Ironhide, keening in wordless joy to have his friend and mentor back, more or less whole. 

//Little scraplet,// Ironhide murmured. And here was sweet little Bumblebee, warm and humming…and he had all this because Optimus was a stubborn glitch who— 

//You’re not hurt, are ya, boss?// Hound had slid off the dorsal hull, bouncing in the low-g, stirring clouds of fine, pale dust. 

//Optimus!// Ratchet disengaged from the cuddle, took Optimus by the arm and led him up the ramp. //Hurry up. You rattle when you walk. Don’t know what you thought you were going to do with them all…//

A moment’s relaxation of focus had left Optimus open to the tumultuous emotions of those he carried. He struggled to string two coherent thoughts together. Friendly hands guided him to an inner chamber; what should have been a repair bay, was more a chop-shop. They sat him down, spoke soothingly until he could override fierce instincts and open his chest armor. Ratchet reached into him and gently took them from him, one by one, and he did not like that, even though it was what he knew would have to happen. 

Ironhide had settled behind him, supporting him. The face not quite right, though it had changed when the spark connected. The body wasn’t Ironhide’s, and the body affected the external fields. They needed to find something for him and Ratchet to scan. That would set many things aright. 

//How long before he starts wanting to spawn some of his own?// Ironhide at least transmitted short-range, forbearing to broadcast to the galaxy at large.

“Oh, he already _wants_ to,” Ratchet said. Aloud. He was fitting the sparks into one stasis tray, keeping them together. He knew that would be much better than separating them. “The Fallen, now this… He’s all stirred up. Old protocols…maybe not fully active yet.”

Pointing out that he was right there and could hear them would only prod his friends into greater efforts to embarrass him. He could feel strands of protometal, potent material, a branching tree rooted in his spark chamber. The filaments would swell, burgeon; he would become heavy with eggs, they would migrate, pushing outward to emerge from his back. He squirmed, rubbing against Ironhide, armor shifting. It was a momentary lapse, that was all. This was decidedly not the time to bring hatchlings into the world. 

“ _Oh_ my,” said Ironhide.

“Ha! You asked!” Ratchet cackled. There. That was all of them. 

Optimus bowed, then arched his back. Bee, Drift, Sideswipe and Crosshairs leaned closer. Hound watched all of them, blinked slowly, getting comfortable, but sending micro-sentries out to standard perimeter just in case. He caught the edge of Ironhide’s eye, returned the nod. 

Hot, Crosshairs thought, irritated. Seeing Prime move like that, optics shuttered, groaning softly – not in pain. Hot to see the great Prime in the grip of some _need_. Helpless like anyone else.

And then, without changing posture, Optimus collected himself, blinked, and was himself again. The need was not gone, but simply and completely set aside. 

Was that even hotter? Or just scary?

“Ironhide,” Ratchet said. Softly. The rescued sparks were safe. And there was Ironhide, practically hiding behind Prime. Ratchet gazed at him, his spark warm and thrumming – Optimus started to push up to his feet, to get out of the way. 

Ironhide stopped him, held on. After five years of inescapable proximity, and now that battle was done for the moment, he did not want distance between them. He held on to Optimus, but kept his optics on Ratchet. 

“C’mere, you old—” Ironhide didn’t finish. _Rust_ bucket was an epithet neither of them were likely to use again. He found himself pulled suddenly into Prime’s lap, instead of behind him, which was more than all right because Ratchet was there too. These compact, default-set bodies were good for some things; they both fit, easily. 

Arms around each other, legs intertwined, low chirring of mutual reassurance; there had been a short span of dizzy, ecstatic contact between their sparks in Optimus’ chest, jostled together and nothing like spark-sharing, bodiless, surrounded by Optimus’ anxiousness and anger. Not dead, though. Primus below, not dead. Their bond had stretched but never broken.

“Urgh,” said Crosshairs. “Get a room.”

Drift snarled from his perch above, half-hidden by suspended, heavy-duty surgical equipment. “One of the few acts of beauty our race has left and you mock it. I should gut you where you stand.”

“Yeah, yeah, dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow. Shove it, Drift.” The elder models might like interfacing in heaps, but Crosshairs liked to be able to concentrate on his partner. He stomped off to inventory the armory again with a green swirl of airfoil. 

The pair on Optimus’ lap never noticed. 

“Ironhide,” Ratchet murmured, lips forming the name in its original language, scant distance from Ironhide’s lips. He caressed that helmless head, thumbs tracing new-altered cheek spars, Prime’s hands warm on their backs. “Ironhide.” New mouths, new hands, and nothing felt exactly right, but it was a second chance and he’d waited five years, five years on the edge of loss or possibility. He pushed Ironhide down, arching him over Optimus’ thigh – delicious proximity – pressed himself against him, Ironhide’s hands grasping his waist the way he liked. They slid and bumped, mouths caught in each other, opening each other as all the unfamiliar pieces of their bodies rubbed and hitched and opened, meshing, sparking blue, both of them venting hard and humming, and these might not be the hands Ratchet wanted or needed, but he knew what to do with them.

Cables slicked between them, the link suffusing their minds, and they murmured ancient endearments low and sweet – not less warmed by the presence of Prime beside them, arms and fields around them. Sensation doubled and they writhed, gasping. New bodies, default settings; they might grumble at having to reset all their preferences, but defaults routed a lot of input directly to pleasure centers. There was a good deal of youthful groping, driven by old, experienced sparks; groping with long, slender fingers – defaults had claws. 

//I love you,// they sang in their ancient tongue, filling the vastness. //I love you. I never want to be parted from you again.// Their chests opened, wide and trusting, eager, and in some dim periphery they heard their Prime speak the words of the bonding ceremony once again. Intricate electron shells of energy bloomed from their sparks, winding and bending around each other, matching pulse for pulse and frequency with frequency, joy of reunion unlooked-for, this side of the Well. The bond thrummed like a major chord, reverberating not through air but through the fabric of the universe, twining their souls together for all of time, the echoes breaking outward, crashing through their bodies, lapping at the bodies of their friends around them. 

Charge grounded sudden and hard, the deck of the med-bay smoking beneath them, Ratchet and Ironhide shuddered, clutching each other, mouths open wide, until finally the grip of release eased, and they tumbled into reset, minds whirling in bliss, sparks pulsing gently. Their chests closed. They sprawled strutless across Prime’s lap. 

Ratchet stirred first, keenly aware that they had a proddy Prime nearby – but Optimus seemed to have gotten his reproductive programming well in hand. Merely watching them, arms about them protectively, humming an old melody.

//Mmm. Prime.//

//Yes,// Ironhide agreed. //I should get dibs, I’ve been dead longest.//

//You weren’t dead! Your spark has been cosying up to his for five years!//

//You weren’t properly dead either, and that only for a handful of days.//

//Of the three of us…// Optimus pointed out.

//Ha! Playing that game, are we?//

//You started it!//

//If I might…?//

And _that_ was their Prime. Ratchet and Ironhide opened together, presenting their sparks, optics candent and deep, engines rolling harmonics that shook the floor. Optimus opened in kind, taking hold of them, guiding the triad – and they surged at him, that he was still capable of this, not irreparably wounded. 

The edge of death was no place to linger. Ratchet stroked Prime’s back, knowing where to push to send pleasure through the branching threads of protometal, and Optimus shuddered hard, spark flaring not _quite_ enough to initiate Contribution; taking all three headlong through an overload resplendent with promise, sweeping toward the edge of life. 

Ironhide sat up, looked around, saw Bee and Sideswipe gripping each other, poised but holding back, hoping. With a grin and a warm chuckle, Ironhide held out an arm – he wasn’t letting go of Ratchet for a good long while yet, and suddenly found himself with an overflowing armful of revving young muscle cars. He nuzzled their helms, cabling to each to reassure them. 

//I am me,// he rumbled. //I am back. Missed you, turbo-punks. Missed the slag outta you…// 

Bee hugged him, hard; and even Sideswipe tucked his helm into the corner of Ironhide’s shoulder, trembling for a moment. Five years wasn’t a proper long time, but Ironhide had been so steady, had survived so much, losing him like that had been a shock; unthinkable. Even when Ratchet had found his spark, just barely flickering in the corroding remnants of his spark chamber, it had only put Ironhide in a kind of limbo. No cannons, no gruff voice, no scarred face, no trusty body to comfort them. 

//Slaggit, Ironpants,// Sides private-commed, //missed you, too!// 

Ironhide nudged at him with that shoulder, catching Sides’ mouth with his own – his face looking more and more like himself as spark-driven self-repair worked through his frame. Ratchet the same, lines of green showing here and there, the CMO’s helm shaping itself out of the default’s rudimentary head-plates. Ironhide pressed his nascent helm to Sideswipe’s, dark turning slowly black against silver. 

“Drift,” Ratchet called, beckoning. “Drift! Let me see you…” He pulled him close, smiled as Drift lifted his arms, just short of twirling around to show off his new armor, letting himself be scanned as deeply as Ratchet was currently able. Then curling in, bowing to kisses on his helm and face, a warm arm around his waist. Ratchet was glad to see the young warrior, but he wasn’t letting go of Ironhide any time soon. “You’ve learned to take proper care of yourself at last, I see.” To say that, when Ratchet had first met him, Drift had been rather cavalier about maintenance was a grotesque understatement. 

“Ohisashiburi desu,” Drift said softly, touching Ratchet’s face, where the default features were changing. “I am…very glad to see you again, Ratchet-sensei.” 

“Weeaboo-chan over there isn’t the only one,” Sideswipe said, grinning, clasping the hand Ratchet still had on Ironhide’s shoulder. He bumped helms with Ratchet, exchanged snarky looks with Drift, then went back to snogging Ironhide.

//Never mind,// Ratchet sent. Drift had always been prone to wandering from one fascination to another. It wasn’t a bad thing, exactly. It made him adaptable. Ratchet smiled. His fingers were smaller now, and Drift had a very nice afferent plexus up high on his back. It was well-armored, but Ratchet knew the right angle to get in under the plating, to make Drift arch and moan and the central seam in his chest to part.

Bee – after claiming another kiss from Ironhide – climbed over him and Sideswipe, and dove into Prime’s arms, fluttering kisses along his jaw, over the segments of his neck guard. It had been nearly four years since Mexico City, where the ambush had nearly claimed Optimus, and Bee and Sideswipe had used that diversion to move Sam and Carly north. //So,// he transmitted, //you didn’t like me making out with Smokescreen?//

//That is not what I said.// Optimus held him close, also remembering anxious time apart, and why. There was an undercurrent of humor in his tone, though, and he smiled a little. //There was a time when you disregarded orders, and your own better sense.// A time well past, and Bumblebee had more than earned his place as lead scout. 

//Hey,// Hound said, gruff, affectionate, cabling first to Ironhide, then Ratchet and Prime. //Now we’re the Dirty Eightsome. Octad.//

//Octet,// said Ratchet.

//Whatever.// Hound chomped his cigar to the other side of his mouth and bumped helms with the CMO. //Glad of it, Ratch. Glad of it.//

Crosshairs joined them at last, drawn in to share Prime’s spark. Optimus caressed his helm, pulsed warm fields through him. Crosshairs shivered, spark spinning fast, ignoring the sleepy grin Drift aimed at him. Cables and sparks, Prime drew them up, drew them together. After, they all fell into recharge, rumbling softly. 

There was a pair of human-built and -directed satellites circling the Moon, for mapping, they said. For research. Prime and the last of his cohort were gathered inside the Knights’ ship, well-shielded. The auto-sentries would warn them if Lockdown’s ship approached. Their last scan had shown it still orbiting Earth. Safe for the moment, safe as they could ask for. 

~>~

They came online one by one, optics alight in the dimness, none of them eager to leave their comfortable clump. 

“Thank you, Optimus,” Ratchet whispered, “for saving the rest of those sparks.”

Optimus nodded, kissed his forehead. “What was that array?”

Ratchet shuddered, Optimus and the others squeezed or patted whatever parts of him they could reach. “It was a…library, of sorts. And a torture device. The nodes on thin wires between sparks functioned as pain-initiators, and alarms. If any one of us was freed – or refused to answer questions – the rest would suffer. And did.” Optimus’ face crumpled. At least those sparks were free now. 

//Do you…know who any of them are?// Bee asked. 

“Aw, kid,” Hound muttered, shuttering his optics. “Don’t ask…”

“A few, maybe,” Ratchet said. “I cannot be certain about the rest. Those in Lockdown’s possession the longest were not…themselves. Not any more.”

“Slag,” said Hound. Drift rested his helm on Bee’s shoulder. 

//Ratchet,// Bee persisted. //Who?//

“Prowl, for one.”

“Oh,” said Ironhide. “That’s bad.” Prowl had been in the upper echelons from the beginning. He’d known an uncomfortable number of secrets.

“I think not,” Optimus said. “Lockdown seemed to hold our conflict in contempt. I doubt he would have cared about Autobot intelligence for its own sake.”

“Bluestreak,” Ratchet continued. Bee warbled, both gladdened and distressed. If they got new bodies, Bluestreak and Prowl would be very good for each other; they had been close as brothers their whole lives. “And…and this is the one that makes me uneasy…Perceptor.”

//Oh no…//

“Hmm.” That was disquieting, Optimus agreed. Perceptor’s vast knowledge of many subjects could have been turned to many uses, to devastating effect. 

“We have him now,” Ironhide pointed out. “And Lockdown’s dead.” 

That was certain. Optimus had bisected him the way he had quite deliberately. Nevertheless, he wished he had gained more information from him beforehand. 

“Did you learn anything else while you were strung up?” Ironhide asked, about as gently as he was able.

“Yes,” Ratchet said. “Many things. But nothing directly about the Creators.” 

“If the specific knowledge contained in the sparks was of no concern to Lockdown,” Drift said, “then these ‘Creators’ must have some other aim.”

“Indeed. But pure speculation at this time.” Optimus shifted, worrying at a different, if related, thought. “He said I – we – were built, not born.” It shouldn’t rankle. Lots of people were built. Ironhide had been built in Praxus, then taken to the Simfur temple to be kindled by the AllSpark. Forged or hatched, it didn’t matter. “I remember being a hatchling…” Hazy, yes, with sensory and cognitive systems not fully formed, but the recollections were there of being small and fragile, a very long time ago. 

“You were a hatchling all right,” Ratchet said. 

Ironhide snorted. “Pit-spawn, but definitely a hatchling.” Bee and Sideswipe giggled. Crosshairs goggled. 

“What if all our memories of hatchlings, and of _being_ hatchlings, were manufactured?” Drift said. “And implanted in order to give us a false sense of history?” Drift had been hatched in the spawn before Bumblebee’s. But what if that was all a lie?

“Cor,” Crosshairs scoffed, flicking a stray bolt at Drift. “You been watchin’ too much anime.”

“No ‘Creators’, no matter how clever,” Ratchet said, “could have invented out of thin air memories of Optimus as a hatchling.” (Ironhide snickered.) “And to implant such a fiction in millions of us? What would be the point? Some of us _are_ built, in any case. Lockdown was just trying to get under your plating.”

“Enough,” said Ironhide, jostling everyone. “There’s work to be done.”

There were groans and complaints, but everyone got up, got moving. There were still some fairly serious repairs needed, as well as general cleanup and sweeping again for well-hidden booby-traps.

“What happened to the other prisoners?” Optimus asked, noting the empty cages as he surveyed the central chamber. A sanctum once, now a prison. 

“Let the squishies go before we dusted off,” Hound said dismissively.

“Oh dear,” said Ratchet.

“Just a small part of the havoc humans brought upon themselves by dealing with Lockdown,” Drift said. 

“And the others?” There had been non-Cybertronian mechanoids as well.

“They are in stasis,” Drift said.

“Easier that way,” Hound explained. “Fewer mouths to feed. And we, uh, didn’t think we’d have your help, Ratchet.”

“All things considered,” Ratchet said, “we probably should keep them so. At least until we figure out where they’re from.”

Optimus nodded. “The status of the humans – Cade and his family?”

“Joyce and Su Yueming said they’d take care of things,” Hound said. “Thought it best to leave ‘em to their own. I guess.” 

//They were okay,// Bee said. Optimus had said to protect them, but with Attinger gone and his power structure in disarray, and with Joyce vouching for them, the Yeagers were already picking out new house plans. //There was no sign of the Knights, after they took off into the forest. The Chinese were looking for them, but if we couldn’t find them I don’t think they can. Not right away.// Brains had bailed outside Chicago. Bee hoped he stayed free this time.

“Very well.”

Ratchet looked up from the console he was repairing. “We’re just going to leave them? Really?” He hadn’t been humanity’s biggest fan, but Optimus’ chilly attitude toward them was new, and troubling. There would be no easy mending. 

Optimus was no longer the mech he had been, regretful and determined, but confident, with great hope in their human allies, hope that the war might at last be nearly over. Too many betrayals, too quickly. Megatron had been an old wound, deep scars, but Sentinel… Sentinel had been a crippling blow. Optimus had been in no mood for negotiations, even if Megatron’s offer of truce had been anything but duplicitous; and Sentinel had proven himself just as genocidally murderous, just as disregarding of lives that were in his estimation lesser, unworthy. 

Then the humans began hunting them. Not all humans, Cade and his family argued. Just humans with authority, with power. With the technology to hurt them, kill them. And then Optimus had broken his own vow, and taken human life. A wasteful, graceless, worthless, hateful act. It had been very, very easy. And absolutely disgusting. 

He had shot Attinger. He had target-locked on a human. A red, wet hole had opened clear through the human’s chest, and he had put it there. He would never be able to forget the sight. It was one of the worst things he had ever done. Never again, he wanted to swear. He _wanted_ that. But he didn’t trust the future, didn’t trust the humans. Didn’t trust himself. Not any more, and that was hard, to not at least have that, after everything else was lost. He needed to be _careful_ , or end up like Sentinel. Or the Fallen.

Would even that resolve stay with him, in the approaching conflict with these “Creators”? 

“Joyce claimed they could defend themselves without our help,” Optimus said. “They’ll find out for themselves, one way or another.” 

“That’s uncommonly petulant of you,” Ratchet said, crossing his arms.

“Perhaps we have interfered enough,” Optimus replied. 

“Joyce had enough data, enough protomatter to begin again,” Ratchet argued. (He would steadfastly pretend that the term “transformium” did not exist.) “But it’s still infected! We cannot in good conscience leave that in their hands.” 

“They made their own decisions. They will continue to do so.” Joyce at least knew the hazard now, as did Su Yueming and Darcy Tyril. An international team, with international loyalties. Perhaps. Distributed intelligence hadn’t saved NEST.

“And if they destroy themselves, you will still blame yourself. You might as well help them as not!”

“No. Not this time.” There were deeper mysteries to investigate now. Let the humans fend for themselves. He would keep reminding himself of that until he believed it.

//Are we ever going back to Earth?// Bee asked. He’d hoped, once the furor over Chicago, and now Hong Kong, died down, he could at least visit Sam. Saying good-bye wasn’t fun, but he hadn’t thought it would be forever. 

“No.” Prime shuttered his optics, softened his tone. “Not soon.” He turned away from them, gazing at the broken, empty cell where he had – briefly – been held. “The _Ark_ will never fly again, but we needn’t leave anything here for the humans to scavenge. We’ll take what we can, demolish the rest.”

They took a few days, more than enough time with eight of them now, working industriously. They completed repairs to their small ship, resupplied, set charges; Ironhide and Crosshairs wrangling over the virtues of various explosives. Five minutes after their ship lifted off, the Moon had a new crater, glassy and dark. Nothing was left but the crater and an expanding cloud of plasma. 

Optimus had asked for, and been given, leave to use the Knights’ ship. Grimlock and his cohort had had their fill of the interior during their long captivity. Earth was an interesting planet, with scattered remnants of their alt-mode origins, things to see and smell and taste, free air around and through their bodies. They had dismissed his warnings regarding the technologically capable humans. Perhaps the Knights knew what they were doing. China was a big place.

Prime took the pilot’s chair, settling his fingers into the keyed pads, feeling the pads and the chair reconfigure themselves to him. Recognition protocols slid into place. The ship had obeyed Hound in an emergency, but it wrapped itself around Prime, actively seeking oneness. He fed the information he had gleaned from the mercenary ship’s engines into the navicomp and let it chew through the data. A holoscreen to his left lit up, displaying projected courses in a widening cone of probabilities. 

Cybertronians were a ravenous, predatory if not outright parasitic species, though the ancient Primes had attempted to blunt the edges of their greed. Had the Fallen’s actions been a betrayal or simply obedience to basic, original programming? Were Sentinel’s actions those of mortal desperation or reversion to type? How much of what he had been taught of their history was a lie? How much of what he had been taught of ethics was expediency – or naïve idealism, a cruel trick to keep him pliant; standards to which no one else was held? There was anger enough in him now to fuel a new quest.

“These Creators made the AllSpark,” Optimus growled. “Made _us_ , for a purpose, or set of purposes. One can imagine what those might be, given our species’ particular talents.” Infiltrators, able to collapse civilizations from well-entrenched positions within every population center. With weaponry devastating to most forms of life, and science capable of destroying suns. They took vast energies from any source and distilled it into easily portable forms. “Built to be slaves, according to Lockdown. Built to do as we are told.” He felt the drives spooling up, deep in the ship.

“We’ll see about that.”


	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three centuries after the Battle of Hong Kong, the remnants of Cybertron’s population find peace enough to rebuild on a new world, and Optimus spawns his first clutch of hatchlings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This of course owes a great deal to Playswithworms' Project Reset 'verse! <3

It was – from a human perspective – a hellish planet. Bumblebee watched hydrocarbon sleet fly sideways in the gale outside the cave’s mouth, glittering in the wan sunlight of the southern arctic circle. The sludgy atmosphere turned it a sickly yellow. It was cold. But this was a moon of the fourth planet out from an unremarkable star, far from what had once been the Cybertronian Empire, and far from anyone else who plied the long reaches of interstellar space. Plentiful energy and material resources, with very active volcanism going on at the equator. They already had a belt of solar collectors up at geostationary, both equatorial and circumpolar orbits. 

Behind him was the other fruit of their labors. Deep caves had been expanded upon, hollowed out to a size they found comfortable, lit above and below with artificial micro-suns. Not quite what Bee would call a city yet, with fewer than seventy living souls, but wandering in that general direction. Sunny and Sides had even plotted and smoothed a twisting raceway, through old lava-tubes that branched out to the east. And down in the deepest chamber, behind labyrinthine tunnels and heavy doors was their spawning chamber, and their Prime. 

Bee turned away from the sleet and the snow-filled valley below the cave. Transforming, he drove down and down the winding tunnel, unlocking and locking doors ahead and behind. Ratchet and Perceptor thought Prime would accept Contributions today. Bee had been a hatchling in one of Sentinel’s last clutches and had never seen the process from the outside. 

Optimus himself was not one of Sentinel’s, though he had been raised by him. As far as anyone had been able to gather, Optimus was from one of Zeta Prime’s last spawns, before Sentinel’s accession. Put into stasis and hidden, though no-one alive now knew why. Optimus had been the only survivor. 

More locks, more doors and energy shields. They had been a long time on their way to this star system, in the Knights’ ship and the one Wheeljack and the others had come in. Their first stroke of unexpected good. Wheeljack and the handful he had rounded up over the centuries of searching; out too far to have come to Earth in time. Wheeljack who was Que’s apprentice, and Bee had had to tell him how Que had died. 

They had been a hundred years here, building, mining, reshaping the inside of a mountain before they had reclaimed enough matter in the right patterns and knowledge to build new bodies – simple defaults – for the 56 sparks Prime had saved from Lockdown’s ship. But after their time in captivity and torture, only 48 of them consented to be rehoused. Of the eight who refused, two were Decepticons who would not be brought amidst filthy rebel Autobots, and stayed sullenly in their tray with the silent ones, the other six of unknown faction and identity, too damaged, too wounded to be able to choose. Ratchet kept them hooked up with EM spectrum sensors, ordinary airwave audio and radio, with vocal outputs. Pharma might have known how to heal unbodied sparks like these, but she had died millennia ago. Ratchet and Perceptor did what they could, and hoped.

Lastgate. High, metal doors, opening outward, and the only ones showing plainly that intelligent beings were here. Abstract patterns and Cybertronian figures stood graceful watch in bas relief, their forms subtly colored in different alloys. Beyond was a rectangular circle of corridor, one last defensible baffle, before the cavern opened out into the city itself. Bee followed the left-hand way, a habit retained from dungeon exploration games with Sam and Miles. Every human they had known was long dead now, but Bee remembered them. 

Left, right, right, left. You couldn’t run the corners fast, and the walls were hardened duranium, glassy and reflective. Last turn and onto the bridge; a broad arch of woven metal springing across a gulf of space before plunging into the heart of the city. Spires glittered with lights at all hours, extending both above and below. The cavern was roughly shaped like an immense American football set on one end, and the city was slowly expanding from an irregular seed in the center of the space outward. Roads and walkways spun like ribbons amongst the crystalline buildings, undeniably Cybertronian – they built what they knew how to build; their surviving engineers knew weapons, not architecture – yet not exactly like any city that had ever been upon Cybertron. 

He took the spiral road down and down, passing the nadir-sunlet, his shadow pivoting around him. Slipping onto the lowest road which curved around the walls of the cavern, he plunged through a high, dark doorway. There were branching tunnels here, more defenses. As Ratchet had pointed out, it was vital that Optimus feel completely safe when he spawned. Prime was not someone whose aggressive or protective instincts they wanted to rouse. Bee knew the route, had the codes to disable the traps, and soon he emerged into the antechamber.

Everyone who wanted to Contribute was already there. Meaning almost everyone there was, except the few who were weirded out, or felt they were unworthy despite Prime’s attempts to convince them otherwise. 

“Hello, Bee,” Prowl said, he and Bluestreak making room for him in their cluster of mechs in the hall just outside the door. “Ready to become an elder?” At the suddenly stricken expression on Bee’s face, Prowl and Blue laughed. 

“Yeah, you won’t be the youngest any more,” Blue said, wrapping an arm around Bee’s shoulders. The 48 re-housed mechs from Lockdown’s trophy rack tended to be very touchy-feely, even (or maybe especially) if they hadn’t been, before. In fact, the two Praxians, upon booting their new bodies, had glomped each other and stayed that way for days. Anyone who got within arm’s reach was grabbed and held on to. Katamari Cybertronians. 

Here, now, in anticipation, Prowl and Blue were already warm, engines revving, glances tipped frequently into the open door of the spawning chamber. 

Optimus knelt in the center, hands folded over his chest, head bowed in concentration. He’d been like that since the evening before. There were certain processes he had to shut down, and a host of others he needed to initiate and have well progressed. He didn’t really look any different, except the arch and swirl of his fields was changing – they were interesting already. Ratchet had explained everything. Optimus wouldn’t be literally irresistible. If people didn’t want to Contribute they didn’t have to, they wouldn’t be sucked in like getting too close to a black hole or anything. But the fact was that a spawning Prime was preeeetty darn sexy. 

At last, Prime lifted his head. Heavy crimson armor plates shifted aside, exposing his spark casing, which not only opened but cantilevered forward. Prime’s biolights shone with extraordinary radiance, his fields swirling in slow, intricate patterns. 

Brave Ironhide went to him first. He stood, proud Thetacon, chest-to-chest. Humming softly, Optimus stroked his body with hands and fields, kissing him until Ironhide was as aroused as he, spark fully exposed. They wrapped arms about each other, tightly, armor creaking, until the light of their sparks shone only in pinpoint beams, projecting a star-map on the walls. They tipped their helms together and went utterly still. 

One minute. Five. Ironhide shuddered, arched, overloaded hard, his frame glowing with the ghost of energy release, like an explosion in spectra Bee wasn’t equipped to see or feel. Ratchet pulled Ironhide’s arm over his shoulders and helped him to sit down, his back to the wall, as the next Contributor, Ultra Magnus, stepped forward. 

The process continued. This was an unusual number of Contributors for a first spawn, but Ratchet had explained that Primes could store the data in special memory cells for use in future spawns. Optimus might be taking in much more than he intended to use this time, just in case. It wasn’t one egg per Contribution, or didn’t have to be; though the Primes had always been cagey about how they made these decisions. Ratchet had growled quite a bit about the incomplete medical records. He didn’t like Optimus taking wild chances on a procedure none of them fully understood. Primes could also spawn solo, but Bee didn’t think that sounded like much fun. 

When it came his turn, Prowl moved aside, nudging Bee ahead. //I want to feel your static on his armor,// he murmured, brushing lips over Bee’s right antenna. Bee grabbed charge and held it hard. Prowl had definitely changed. From being such a hardliner before, Prowl was now quite the sensualist, and those who had known him on Cybertron found it disturbingly attractive. Bee had heard Springer swearing about it just the other day. 

Bee stepped into the chamber, putting a little sway into his walk, knowing Prowl and Blue were watching. Hyperaware of the cl-clump of his footfalls, the whrrr and hum of his hydraulics and servos, the warm regard and fields of those watching, the misty air swirling around his limbs. Prowl’s words echoed and re-echoed in his mind. Elder. Elder… Soon there would be young, babies, hatchlings, and he would be partially responsible for keeping them safe and teaching them. Helping them grow. He would be partially responsible for them coming into being. Prime would use some part of his spark-pattern to create new sparks. 

He almost stopped. A flicker of thought – bolt for the door and run – but swiftly dismissed, erased like an old fragment of bad code. 

I want this, he realized. I do want this! He closed the distance, wrapped his arms about Prime’s neck and pulled himself up onto his tippy-toes. //I want this. I want to do this with you.//

//Mmmm. I with you.// Prime could transmit, briefly, but found speaking aloud difficult and had not uttered more than a few words since the Contributing began. But his hands moved with surety on Bee’s small, strong body, slow across all the familiar, sweet places. Steam huffed from the vents in his face and from the great core stacks that rose from his shoulders. //Soon, not youngest.//

//So people have been reminding me.// Bee wriggled as Prime’s fingertips found the sensitive nerve-hub at the small of his back and stroked it. 

Prime chuffled against his helm, hugging him closer. The edges of their chest plates overlapped, and Bee opened his spark chamber wide as he could. Pressing into Prime, he felt something in their mechanisms catch and hold, steadying them together.

He felt his body settle and still, yet singing with charge, as Ratchet had told them it would. Every point of articulation locked, every process slowed, until the only things that moved were his fuel and coolant pumps, the quantum workings of his mind, and the exotic spin of his spark. Knowing it would happen and feeling it were two different things, but before startlement could turn to alarm, Bee focused on Optimus’ optics. 

Caught at the very edge of overload, the energy resonance between their sparks hummed strong and bright, their spins finding a keen, mortal harmony. Their sparkshells opened, crystal petal segments sliding over each other, their sparks unfurling like spiral galaxies. Something integral expanded, a fiery nebula caught in solar wind, wisps and then surging prominences caught and embraced by Prime’s spark, somehow not lessening Bee’s spark, but drawing it out, making it grander, deeper, mingling their patterns .Bee couldn’t follow exactly what Prime was doing, but he felt the edges of it, some vast puzzle, some great sweep of wings through the cosmos, a softly hummed song he’d never heard before; and then that tipping, impending feeling of being on the edge of overload flared through him like a lit fuse, short and hot and inevitable, ionization lead-threads hitting them from all over the room – the lightning struck outward from their sparks, spilling charge in blinding waves that splashed against the walls and the watchers. 

His body released, was released, he arched in Prime’s arms, motion and closing and sealing of vulnerable inner cores, and he would have slid strutless to the floor but was caught tenderly. 

“OooOOoooo,” Bee warbled. “Staaaars…” He’d wanted to watch Prowl, watch Prime’s hands on Prowl’s lithe body, but he didn’t protest as Perceptor carried him over to the wall. Sitting down next to Ironhide seemed like a lovely idea, too. Ironhide wasn’t precisely awake, but he rumbled, pulled Bee into his lap, curled his arms around him. Thunk went ‘Hide’s chin on Bee’s helm and they both slipped deep into recharge.

“Aww,” Drift murmured to Rung. “So cute! See how their fields have gone all soft cyan?” 

Rung smiled indulgently. Drift had discovered Spectralism about five years ago and his enthusiasm for it was in full swing. He was actually getting less annoying about it these days, and, well, a purring Bee cuddled in Ironhide’s lap was ridiculously cute. 

{{{}}}

Two days later, Ratchet asked him, “How many?” At this early stage, any scan that could usefully penetrate Optimus’ body would damage the delicate processes going on within. 

Optimus’ optics dimmed as he turned his attention inward. 

Ratchet cupped his helm, turning his head. “Optimus? Optimus… stop gawping at them for a second and tell me how many.” 

“Hmm?” Optimus blinked slowly. At last his optics focused. “Mm. Thirty-one.” He had considered 79, as the next happy prime number, but then the adults would be outnumbered. 

“For your first clutch?!” Ratchet needed to sit down. He might as well, since clearly he wasn’t going to get any rest for the next several thousand years. Optimus was going to need more supplements, a lot more energon. And they should probably step up mining and refining production. Yesterday. 

“Whoa,” said Wheeljack. “Don’t do anything by halves, do ya?” 

“You’re supposed to start with two!” Ratchet muttered, knowing it was useless. “Maybe three. First clutch!” Population bottleneck be slagged. Optimus risked damaging his generative threads. There had better be a Prime in this batch, or they were in trouble. Usually the first clutch didn’t, but pitching thirty-one, there just might be. 

{{{}}}

Optimus had always been, well, chesty. Over the last year, though, and most notably in the last week, his upper body had more than doubled in girth. The added weight felt right and solid, but the shift in his center of gravity made his balance less than perfect. And he didn’t fit in any but backless chairs. He was running hot; standing next to him one could feel it, pluming off him in a continuous upwelling cloud as his body manufactured a large number of complex mechanisms at a highly accelerated rate; tenfold faster than normal self-repair. He was consuming what he couldn’t help but feel was a profligate amount of energon every day. 

For several weeks now, he had been recharging for longer than usual; that was expected. But this morning he had spent hours lying – face-down, and even that was tricky, but on his side or back was right out – in his berth, lost in thought. No, lost in contemplation of his developing eggs. A forgivable offense, but he had therefore missed most of the morning’s city planning meeting. They could easily use comms, but they – refugees, all, Con or Bot or neutral – generally liked meeting in the metal.

The meeting was still going on, though. If he hurried he could catch the end. Three jogging steps convinced him he needed to smoothen his stride, but he could still move quickly. Too quickly. He rounded the last corner a little fast and staggered, compensating in time to avoid crashing into the wall, and into the person coming the other direction. Springer grinned and caught him.

“Weight distribution not what it used to be, eh?” Being this close to Prime made him feel strange. Good, but strange. Springer had been part of Wheeljack’s band of rascals and hooligans (per Ultra Magnus), not one of the rescued sparks. There was no reason for him to be this clingy. So why were his hands lingering on the broad curve of Prime’s chest?

Optimus leaned into him, fields waving a sine of gratitude. He nuzzled Springer’s audial and murmured, “Meeting.”

“Mm? Oh! Slag, Optimus, sorry.” 

“Hands, Springer.”

“Right! Yes, sorry, sorry…”

Optimus, now in a thoroughly jovial mood, escaped with only a little more groping and caught the end of the meeting.

{{{}}}

Another year had nearly passed. Perceptor didn’t find Optimus in Prime’s quarters. He didn’t find him in any of the usual meeting rooms, nor in the plaza of fountains. Ratchet confirmed that he wasn’t in the medibay, and Ambulon let him know that he wasn’t down in the spawning chamber either. 

The urge to sneak off and hide, Optimus had assured everyone, was only an impulse. He had no intention of actually spawning in some hole or tunnel somewhere far from friends and help. Now and then, however, the peculiar itch for solitude got the better of him. 

Perceptor’s previous inquiries had stirred ripples, and at last Bumblebee reported that Optimus was, in fact, in the communal oil baths. 

//Thank you, Bee. I’ve no idea why I didn’t check there first,// Perceptor said, rolling his optics at himself. 

The communal baths were large, airy spaces directly adjacent to the city’s central plaza. Tiled in white ceramic which resembled but was not porcelain, the curving series of rooms had been the Cybertronians’ first major attempt at recapturing some of their lost arts. Grapple and Slog were dead, but Sunstreaker and Crosscut had been cultivating nascent talents, experimenting in various media, to the enrichment of the young city and all its inhabitants. 

Sitting on the edge of the largest pool, dangling his feet in the fine, clear oil, Optimus was curled as far forward as he could be. Which wasn’t very. Mirage and Sunstreaker were oiling his back, taking their time about it, being sure to lubricate and shine every segment, every seam. 

“That is completely unnecessary,” Perceptor said, who had come to check Prime’s progress. “However, I am enjoying watching you do it.” 

“We are enjoying doing it,” Mirage hummed, brushing a cheek spar against Perceptor’s shoulder as he passed. 

“And Prime’s enjoying having it done to him,” Sunstreaker said, leaning over to get a look at Optimus’ face. “Aren’t you?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“So. When’s he going to pop?” Sunny had downloaded a lot of files from Bee and Sideswipe. 

“Sunstreaker!” Mirage yelped, aghast. 

“Very soon,” Perceptor said, keeping the medical link open for rather longer than necessary, his hands cupping Prime’s chest. Oh these systems were working so beautifully! All those little glowing lives burgeoning, jiggling a little now and then as the tiny protoforms coalesced around their sparks. “In another two or three days, I should think.” 

“Already?” Optimus failed to keep the plaintive note from his voice. 

“Well you can’t keep them in there,” Perceptor said, kissing Prime’s forehelm in delight. “Or you really will burst.”

“Ew,” said Mirage.

{{{}}}

All too soon, the emergence day arrived. None too soon, Prime’s next thought was. He was starting to have trouble moving his arms, and he could no longer lie down at all.

Tread heavy and slow, he trundled into the medibay. “Ratchet?”

The CMO met him with a brilliant smile and eager fields, touching his chest gently. “Yes?”

“I think so.”

“We’re taking Prime to the spawning chamber now!” Ratchet broadcast as Perceptor and Hoist helped Prime clamber onto a float sled. 

He waved happily as everyone gathered along the road, heading down and down. Hands brushed his hands, his knees, feet, everyone basking in the warmth of his fields. Optics bright, their fields buzzing in excitement. 

Perceptor, Wheeljack, Hoist and Ambulon had already prepared the chamber, making certain the glial mesh was in place, well-anchored, and functioning properly. Optimus slid off the float sled and lumbered carefully into the center of the room, while a glare from Ratchet kept the curious onlookers confined to the doorway. Bumblebee found himself pressed between Sideswipe and Nautica, near the front. 

“Should have built a platform,” Ratchet muttered, half to himself. “At least a bowl-chair…”

Optimus waved him away. “Stop fussing, Ratchet. The floor’s clean.” Besides, they would be able to reach his back more easily this way. With some difficulty, lowering himself in stages, he sat, crosslegged, folding his arms over his chest. He curled into himself, tight as he could with his chest grown so big. Tighter, and tighter again, and that looked like reflex, like at this point he couldn’t help it. There was a hum and whir, the sounds of a body arranging itself. 

“Do you want the door open or closed?” Ratchet asked softly, touching a hot shoulder. It trembled microscopically beneath his hand. 

“Open. With Ironhide.”

Ironhide nodded, taking guard position. The spectators shuffled back a step, then scooted forward again, careful not to crowd Ironhide, and to arrange themselves in a pattern such that they could get out of the way in a hurry if they had to. Smaller bots climbed on the shoulders of larger, and those in the very back borrowed optical feeds from those in the front. 

Steam poured from Prime’s core vents; the room warmed, turned misty, like a tropical dawn. Lights twinkled, gold and blue, in the supportive glial mesh that draped the walls.

Optimus made a soft, low sound, caught and cut off at the end, as his back bowed more sharply, contractions rippling up his body, from caudal to cranial, and diagonal seams split up and down his back, glowing, molten, herringboned along his midline. The sound he made was not one of pain, rather the opposite. More than a few of those watching had fans running on high. 

Three eggs emerged at once, immediately followed by two more. Small, steel-blue spheres, that quickly swelled into glowing blue ovoids upon contact with the air. The medical bots soon found themselves scrambling to keep up; carrying each egg to the glial mesh and securing it to electrical, monitoring, and energon feeds. Each egg, and then armfuls of eggs as Prime’s chest contracted. 

“Got everyone scurrying around already,” Ironhide said, “and the little scraps haven’t even hatchet yet.” Optimus gave a muffled chuckle. 

It was good, Ratchet thought as he hurried to the mesh with another three eggs, pulsing deep love at Ironhide through their bond, spawning in laughter. Optimus needed this. They all did, but doing this, Ratchet hoped, would help ease the lingering agitation in Prime’s spark. Optimus had gone a long way down a foul road, by the time he had finished with their erstwhile Creators. Perceptor and Ambulon flashed grins at each other, probably thinking along the same lines. 

“And that’s thirty-one,” Ratchet said, cradling the last glowing egg to the last prepared bezel. He returned to Optimus immediately as Perceptor took over making sure of the egg’s attachments. “Beautifully done, Optimus. Just rest a moment. Let your generative threads contract on their own. Your body knows what it’s doing.”

“Outside,” Optimus groaned. Glowing orange showed between the plates of his armor, behind his optics, from inside his mouth. The air around him shimmered. 

“Oh,” Ratchet said. “That is one way, I suppose.” He and Perceptor had prepared a quenching bath, but if Optimus wanted to roll around in the snow outside that would also work. And if it made him happy, all to the good. 

He couldn’t transform without risking harm, so he’d have to hoof it. He staggered for the door.

“Climb on,” Ironhide said, transforming, backing up to offer his pickup bed. There were chuckles all around and Prime grinned as he clambered on. His hands left scorch-marks, but Ironhide was well-named, didn’t even flinch.

Ironhide peeled out, tires marking the floor; Ratchet rolled his optics. Up and up; their route became a sort of celebratory lap through the city, surrounded by a convoy of alt modes – everyone not directly involved in minding the eggs – with Optimus assuming a surfing pose on Ironhide’s back, with steam and the reek of hot metal flowing behind him like a long, ragged cloak. Or wings.

“Air-borne fire-breather,” Bee whispered, thinking that Prime could have flown himself up. He still had Jetfire’s engines. Sideswipe snerked. 

Blazing past every hastily opened door and gate, Ironhide spun out into the open air and swirling ice of the broad ledge at the entrance to their city in the mountain. There were no roads on this world as yet. They wanted nothing visible from space. 

Optimus jumped clear, running directly into the sleet-storm, turning so the freezing wind hit him from every side – steam sheared off him like smoke in a wind-tunnel – yet it wasn’t enough. Hot metal still shone from his interior spaces. Eyeing a suitable drift, Optimus let himself fall backward, plumping down, flurries flying, melting his way rather deeper than he’d meant to. But there was rock beneath him, not frigid ocean, and with friends to hand he was in little danger of being trapped in ice. 

He moaned, full and low and long. Primus but the snow felt good on his back! The seams closed, self-repair knitting the passages; the protometal filaments sleeked down to their inert size, and the thrumming of his spark quieted, needing now only to sustain one body. He felt wonderful, almost blissful…

…Except. 

His eggs. He was too far from them out here. He did not like that. He wrangled with the ancient programming. They were fine, and who better to keep watch over them than Ratchet and Perceptor and the others? It wasn’t as though he would need to…to sit on them or anything. They had three years until they hatched – and then everyone would be very busy. He grinned. 

Arms and legs were all anyone could see of Prime in the snowdrift. When said appendages started to flail, Ultra Magnus and Springer laughed and went out to help him up.

**Author's Note:**

> “A wasteful, graceless, worthless, hateful act,” and the two sentences following that are quoted, with slight modification, from _Look to Windward_ by Iain M. Banks.  
>  There’s an interesting exploration in Banks’ work, and others, about the relationship of hyperintelligent machines and the humans who built their forebears. I found the above quote (and the conversation it belongs to) particularly striking, and it’s interesting that we humans are starting to have something like that feeling ourselves. Animal rights is a relatively new idea in the West (c. 1970’s), slowly gaining traction all over the world. And the question of self-awareness matters as well. India’s recent rulings re chimps and the other great apes, and dolphins. Aliens will be alien, but it’s not too crazy to think that advanced societies might have taken these ideas and gone further with them. Cybertronians _could_ regard killing humans as revolting. Or at least beneath them.


End file.
